


Anything, Everything

by skarletfyre



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Body Image, First Time Blow Jobs, Heavy has never been with a man, M/M, Sexual exploration, Size Difference, Size Kink, Unresolved Romantic Tension, dom/sub elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-05-19 20:44:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5980480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavy has always known what he wanted, but he'd never quite figured out how to get it. Perhaps all he'd needed was someone to show him the way...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Misha had long stopped being self-conscious about his size.

Mother Russia bred strong men and women, built sturdy and tough to survive her cruel and unforgiving winters. Big men were common, as were big women like his sisters. But even in the little village Misha grew up in he stood out among his fellows. Always too tall, too wide, always worried about breaking furniture and taking up too much space ever since he was a fat little boy. He was used to people staring when he entered a room, _every_ time he entered a room. He was used to feeling eyes on him. Over the years, it had gradually stopped feeling as though those eyes were crawling under his skin.

But still, he could always feel them.

He could tell the difference, too, in the way that he would be watched. An ability earned from years and practice and the pressing need to read his environment at a glance.

Wonder was the first and most common reaction when people first caught sight of him. Awe at the size of his hands, or the negligible distance between the top of his head and any given ceiling. Children especially liked to stare. Their little mouths falling open, eyes widening in a way that always made him smile, even as their parents took them by the hand and dragged them away from the giant they themselves had just caught sight of.

Fear was extremely common as well. Misha hated that, once. When he was a younger, kinder man, unable to fathom fear of the unknown or the perceived threat of a thing simply because it was different. He remembered the years of hurt and confusion as his classmates shrank away from him or flinched when he offered a handshake. Girls and women huddling close to each other or the other men beside them as he passed on the streets. And men, men far smaller and weaker than himself, barely able to meet his eyes should they have occasion to speak.

Men looked at him in other ways as well. Challengingly. Threateningly. Other big men – never quite as big in the ways that he was, though he had met several who were undoubtedly stronger than him – would size him up openly. They would look at him as if his simply existence was a threat to their own masculinity and power, and he could see the little wheels turning behind their eyes as they decided whether or not that threat was enough to confront him over. Some did. More than a handful of foolish men had come to him looking for a fight. Some had gotten one. If they were crude enough, or if Misha had had a bad enough day to accept the vague challenge of a perfect stranger.

But again, those were the troubles of a younger man. Misha was no longer hot-headed and soft-hearted. The jeers and threats of other men didn't rile him now as they did in his youth, and it had been many long years since he had been properly harmed or insulted. Life had taught him in excess that there were things worse than being called rude names, or being looked at with unkindness.

And yet he still felt it when people looked. Always, always _looking_ at him.

There was another kind of look he received. Not often, and never when he was expecting it. Never when he knew how or was able to return such a look, no matter how much he may want to.

Some men looked at him in fear and others in anger, but Misha was far more attuned to the men who looked at him with _interest._

It took him a very long time to understand what the feeling was, and the intent behind it when he caught another man glancing at him from across the room. It wasn't fear and it wasn't anger and it wasn't quite wonder, but until the point that Misha figured it out he had no idea what it could be. He didn't know that men could look at each other like that. He didn't know, for the longest time, that he was not alone in his desires.

The men who looked at him this way did not often fit into any of the little categories he'd made up for the usual sorts of gawkers. They weren't all tall or short, they weren't all small or weak or big and strong like himself. They weren't simply poor men or rich men, men with fine clothes and soft hands from a life free of labor of any kind, or men whose palms were so thick with calluses that they could feel only the roughest of textures.

It was all these men and more, in many combinations, that caught his attention as they watched him from across a darkened pub, or a pool hall, or a market. The look was the only constant between them.

A glance, at first. He'd feel the eyes on him and turn, and catch them as they turned quickly away. And if they looked again, and held his eyes, the he would know. Sometimes it was a curiosity that twinkled in their eyes. Sometimes, if _he_ was the one caught looking, it was an acknowledgment. _We are the same,_ a strangers eyes would tell him, and Misha was able to feel slightly more relaxed in his environment because of it. He was the odd one out for one less reason. It was remarkable the comfort such a thought could bring.

And sometimes, if the room was dark enough or there were few enough people between them who might intercept the exchange, Misha might look at a man and see returned nothing but _want._ Raw desire, attraction to _him,_ laid out on their face for all to see so that there could be no mistake about it. These looks were not fleeting. They lingered, boring into the back or side of his head, waiting impatiently for his attention.

Misha never knew how to feel about those looks. To so brazenly display his desires was a foreign, frightening concept to him, even as he rapidly approached middle age. Sometimes he returned those looks. Held the heavy, enticing gaze with his eyes, waiting for whatever next step might follow such an interaction.

But nothing had ever come of it.

Perhaps there was something wrong him, Misha had often thought. Something that was missed at a glance but easily seen under closer scrutiny. Whatever it was those men saw when they were eying him from the shadows, it seemed to evaporate as soon as he returned their interest. They would look at each other, eyes meeting eyes across whatever space lay between them... and then, always, the men would turn away.

Misha never understood what he was doing wrong. He waited, always waited, for some kind of signal or sign for what he was meant to do next, and yet he never received it. No suggestive tilt of the head, no clandestine hand gesture to wave him over. Nothing. There was always nothing. These men who looked at him – who _wanted_ him only moments earlier – gave him absolutely no indication of what exactly it was they wanted him to do or say.

They ignored his further attempts at eye contact, and then eventually they left. Or Misha did, when he couldn't stand it any longer. He'd pay his bill and walk out, hoping in vain that one day one of those men might follow him out and explain in simple, easy to understand _words_ what it was they wanted.

Misha knew what he wanted. It had taken him a long time to understand it, and then a longer time to admit it to himself, but he had lived long enough and seen enough hardship to acknowledge his own deepest, darkest desires.

He was attracted to men. Sexually and emotionally and romantically, in all the ways it was possible to be drawn to a person, and he had only ever felt such things towards other men.

He had been with women – many women, in fact – over the years in the misguided attempt to 'fix' himself. He had courted women and slept with them, spent years with them, very nearly married one for his mother's sake, but in his heart of hearts Misha had always known the truth about himself. It was only so long that he could continue living the lie.

Everything that he had ever had or tried to have with a woman, he wanted to have it with a man.

But those desires seemed destined to remain in the realm of fantasy. He was in his forties now, growing older with every passing day. If no one had wanted him when he was young and handsome then how could they want him now when he was old and fat and bald?

His current circumstances did not exactly foster the possibility of romance either. It was true that he lived and worked exclusively with seven other men – eight, if Pyro could be counted as such – far from the prying and judgmental eyes of the public. But even over the years, these had remained working relationships only. Friendships, certainly, but not what he truly wanted.

Misha's friendships with other men had always felt odd. He never knew when too much was too much, or when certain actions crossed the invisible lines that society had placed so firmly between them. How close was he allowed to stand without imposing? How long was a handshake or a hug allowed to continue without becoming too intimate or uncomfortable? How was he to know if an advance was being made toward him, or if was safe for _him_ to make such an advance?

Most of the men on his team were easy enough to read. Sniper and Engineer adhered strictly to the perceived social rules about men and personal spaces. A friendly pat on the shoulder or a brief, one-armed hug was the most they would exchange even times of joy. They were the quickest to shift aside when someone sat next to them, ever careful that limbs such as elbows and knees never so much as bumped against each other. Scout and Demo were less careful. The Demoman slung his arm around people's shoulders at any opportunity, though Misha was certain much of that was the need for someone to lean on and help him balance. Scout was young. The rules of his generation were less harsh than those of his older fellows. He was comfortable enough to give full hugs, to rest his feet on another man's lap, to nudge and poke and grab and tease. Sometimes Misha wondered about Scout, actually. And Spy, who had always remained on the fringes of social intimacies, yet never seemed averse to it. But again, he wouldn't know where or how to begin such a conversation.

Pyro broke all the rules, if they were aware of them at all. Misha doubted it. Whoever or whatever the arsonist was behind that mask, he believed they would not fit in a box of any kind no matter how hard someone tried to stuff them into one.

Soldier had never touched him. In nearly two years of acquaintance, not once in Misha's memory had the American laid a hand on any of them except in violence.

And then there was Medic.

Of all his teammates, it was the Medic that Misha thought of truly as his friend. They worked well together on the battlefield, moving as one as they mowed their enemies down in droves and led the hardest pushes to victory for their team. Medic was there to heal his wounds and in turn Misha did his best to keep the man from harm.

They got along just as well during off hours. Medic was the only one of them who knew him as anything other than his title of 'Heavy.' Misha had trusted the doctor with his name, and though it was technically an accident it still stung slightly that the man had not returned the courtesy. But still it was Medic that Misha sought out for conversation or advice, or a game of chess after a long and stressful day. And it was because of the Medic that Misha cursed himself for being so obtuse, and so indecisive.

The doctor was a charming, eccentric, occasionally terrifying man with a dazzling smile and the habit of invading people's personal spaces to an alarming degree. He and Misha spent so much time together and were so close that Misha was almost certain the man felt something for him as well, but nothing had ever been expressed aloud. Medic was always grabbing his arms and hands, standing too close to him, looking him hard in the eyes during even the simplest conversations. He'd been doing this since their very first meeting, which only served to knock Misha even further off balance. Was this simply how Medic was, or did it make him special in some way?

He had never pushed the issue. Never leaned closer when Medic pressed their shoulders together, had never dared to close his hand around Medic's own or let their eyes remain locked for too long. No matter how badly he wanted to, he'd never allowed himself to close the small distance the doctor left between them,

Medic was a very attractive man. He was fit for his age and clean and always finely dressed, even when the blood on his clothes was thick enough to seep through to his skin. He and Misha were very different kinds of men. Not only that, but Misha had observed Medic's chummy, too-close-for-casual-comfort interactions with other teammates besides himself.

And of course, there were the whispered rumors about the good doctor's _wife._

Misha wasn't going to humiliate himself by vying for the affections of a married man. If Medic truly had a pretty wife out there somehow, then what could he ever want with big, hairy old Misha?

It was a painful thing to do, but he had made the quiet decision to let the torch he carried for Medic to go out on its own. There was no point in fanning the flames that would only burn him in the long run.

Despite all of that, Misha also refused to let his friendship with the doctor fade away. He enjoyed the company and conversation just as much as he had before. True friendships were few and far between in his life and he wasn't so foolish as to throw a perfectly good one away over his own hurt, unspoken feelings.

He joined Medic in the recreation room/mess hall that evening on the grounds that the other man was determined to win back his honour on the chessboard. Misha had been on a winning streak for the last few weeks in a row, and Medic's frustration was clearly starting to show in his hunched shoulders and slanted, furrowed brow. He hadn't made a move in nearly five minutes.

“Is your turn, Doktor,” Misha rumbled, trying not to let his amusement show. He had to stifle a laugh when Medic shushed him harshly, pale eyes never leaving the checkered board.

Misha contented himself sit back in his chair and wait. Medic could beat him quite easily this match, if only he would apply strategy and think ahead in the long run, rather looking only for moves that would grant him an immediate edge. Planning and anticipating consequences for his action was not one of Medic's strong suits. In games and in life he was always pushing forward, always forcing progress for the sake of progress with scarcely a glance at his past mistakes. It was something Misha envied about him. To not be haunted, tormented by his follies. Although he knew the doctor well enough to see that he was not as unaffected as he pretended to be.

It was a cool Spring morning outside, raining softly against the high windows of the rec room. There were no battles left to fight that day. Despite the bloodshed that he knew would take place tomorrow, Misha felt completely at ease in the base in the company of his comrades. He leaned comfortably in his chair, hands folded casually across his stomach as he watched his closest friend struggle with the challenge at hand. Some of the others filtered in and out of the room, popping in to the kitchens or sitting to read under the good lighting. It was a calm day. A quiet day, and nothing was out of the ordinary.

And then Misha felt the eyes on him.

He ignored the feeling at first. It was likely Sniper or Demoman behind him, observing his game with the doctor. Perhaps taking bets on who would win. Misha paid it no mind.

When it persisted, he chanced a glance around.

The Sniper and Demoman were indeed behind him, sitting quietly side by side at the long dining table. The Scotsman was clearly assembling a bomb of some kind in the middle of the mess hall, using a pair of thin pliers to curl a length of wire into the desired shape. He appeared entirely focused on his work.

Sniper was similarly absorbed in whatever it was he was writing that was making him scowl so fiercely. Misha looked over just in time to watch him scratch out a line of text. His eyes were not the ones watching the chess match through yellow tinted lenses.

“A _ha!”_ Medic exclaimed, snapping Misha's focus back to the board in front of him. The German doctor was smirking in devious satisfaction, an expression Misha adored to see. “Let's see what you make of that, _mein Freund.”_

Misha looked at the little checkered board, taking a moment to register the change that had taken place. Medic had moved his knight to G4, right into the path of Misha's white king. To take the piece, however, would have put his king in further jeopardy. He deliberated a moment, then moved the king out of harm's way back to G1.

Medic's knight quickly swooped in to capture his pawn at E3.

Heavy frowned. What was the doctor doing? He had left both his knight and his own queen in mortal danger depending on Misha's next move. Did he think Misha wouldn't see the opening provided to him?

After a moment of hesitation, Misha shifted his queen out of danger to D2.

The widening smirk on Medic's face told him immediately that he had mistake.

Misha watched with sharp cobalt blue eyes as the doctor reached forward with long, clever fingers and pinched that black knight between his knuckles, and swapped it neatly for Misha's bishop on G2.

Misha's eyebrows shot up.

He looked over the board once, and then again, to be sure that he was truly seeing things correctly. Medic was smiling like the cat who got the cream, and yet...

Misha moved his king forward a single square and took the knight. Medic responded by moving a pawn – which Misha immediately took. Knight to D4. And he still had no idea what the other man was getting at.

He'd been so wrapped in the flurry of activity on the chessboard that he'd almost forgotten about the feeling of being watched. The weight of the eyes on him now crept back into his sense as he pondered his next move, unsure exactly what brilliant strategy he was meant to be missing here. Medic had no poker face to speak of. He was smiling because he was certain of his victory, even though all that Misha could see was foolish, obvious mistakes.

He rubbed a hand over his broad chin, waiting to see what exactly Medic planned to do next. And as he sat, he took another chance to look around the room in search of the mysterious gaze that plagued him so strongly.

Misha looked out of the corner of his eye toward the door to the kitchen. He thought he might find someone there, peering around the corner for whatever purpose to watch him without his knowing. But there was no one.

Medic put his bishop on B7...

...directly into the path of Misha's king, _again._

Misha saw the move. His eyes darted between the remaining pieces on the board and tried to put everything together, tried to follow the line of thinking and plan his next move with care, but the thoughts weren't coming together.

The eyes were still on him. He could feel them boring into his face, making the skin of his forehead itch in sympathy of the mock irritant. Misha scanned the room once more, looking over Medic's shoulders and over the top of his head, trying to find the eyes that vexed him.

“Heavy?” he heard the doctor ask, and heard the hint of the concern in his voice.

“ _Извините.”_

Misha made the first move that popped into his head and took his king out of danger, shifting it back to F1. He sat back in his chair and frowned at the board for a moment longer, and then looked up.

Directly across from him, gleaming in the space over Medic's left shoulders, Misha found them.

The eyes were grey. He knew that, even from this distance. He couldn't truly see them from where their owner stood in the shadows, leaning against the wall beneath the high windows. Perhaps it was the light that prevented Misha from seeing him before. Perhaps the smoke that coiled from the observer's mouth had been thick enough to obscure the glimmer of his narrowed eyes on the other side of the room.

It was Spy that watched him.

“There.”

Misha's gaze dropped automatically to the board. He scrambled to remember how it had been before and to see what move he should make next. Then he realized how unnecessary, and impossible such a thing would be.

Medic had moved his black queen to D7. And Misha's white king, still sitting pretty on F1, had absolutely nowhere to go.

A laugh bubbled its way up Misha's throat as he realized the brilliance of what had happened. Medic had beaten him by playing his own expectation of the man's skill level against him. He knew what Misha believed he would do, so he had done the opposite and come out on top for it.

“Very clever, Doktor,” Misha told him, meeting the man's excited smile with one of his own. “You plan this very carefully.”

Medic was a man whose ego was easily inflated with even the lightest of praise, and Heavy delighted to watch it swell under his words. His breast puffed out in pride, a fanciful mimic of the doves he so doted on. Heavy wanted to tell him he was beautiful.

“I was worried I wouldn't quite get away with it,” the doctor said, his chest deflating slightly beneath his waistcoat. An almost sheepish expression crossed his long face as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the round little table they played their game on. “You seem quite distracted today, Herr Heavy. I fear that may have had more to do with my victory than my own personal cleverness.”

Truthfully, Misha did not entirely disagree with that assessment. He _was_ distracted, and not paying as much attention as he typically would. While he certainly hadn't let Medic win on purpose it was likely he hadn't presented as much of a challenge as he was capable of under normal circumstances.

Misha's eyes flicked back over Medic's shoulder, searching for the ashen gaze that had haunted him and diverted his interest from the match.

But Spy was gone. Misha couldn't say with certainty whether he'd ever actually been there at all.

He turned his gaze back to Medic and smiled.

“ _Nyet,_ Doktor. I give my full attention to you, always.”


	2. Two

There were few things Misha enjoyed more than a large cup of tea. Tea was a rare treat growing up in the little village he had once called home, and even rarer after he and his family had been forced into hiding and isolation. Small pleasures, such as books and sweets and _tea,_ were sorely missed in the frozen wastes of Siberia.

It was still a wonder to him now that if he ever wanted for anything, all he had to do was fill out a form and it would be delivered to him in a matter of days. The cost would be subtracted from his paycheck, of course, but a single jar of dried tea leaves or a leather backed tome was not going to take food from the mouths of his Mama and sisters.

Misha felt far less guilt about treating himself, however slightly, than he had a mere year and a half ago. With the ludicrous amount he was being paid, almost all of which was sent home to his family, he could hardly be accused of being selfish.

He had earned, if nothing else, a simple cup of tea.

It had two days since his loss to Medic on the chessboard. Two days to think and test his own memory, and dwell on the pair of grey eyes he could have sworn were watching him from the opposite side of the room. Misha had consumed quite a bit of tea in that time. It calmed him, to feel the warmth of the beverage in his large hands. Being calmed help him to think.

He was almost positive now that he had truly seen Spy watching him. He'd flip-flopped back and forth in his mind, debating with himself whether or not he was imagining things. But as Misha had been teased repeatedly by his younger sisters, he was not a man known for his imagination. He liked things to be simple and easy to understand. He preferred the logical and methodical to the flowery and abstract. He and the Engineer got along very well in that regard. Except when it came to literature; he was willing to compromise those ideals in the face of magnificent prose. The Texan was not.

But Misha knew what he saw.

He didn't know what it meant, or why on earth Spy would pay him such special attention, but the thought of having the Frenchman's calculating gaze turned in his direction made his blood run cold.

Misha had been very careful about the details of his life that he revealed to his teammates. It was difficult to let things slip in a language one did not have full mastery of, but that didn't mean it was impossible. His colleagues knew that he had sisters, though he couldn't recall giving an exact number. They knew that he was not a Communist. They knew, from his first and extremely tense conversation with Medic – a conversation that he deeply regretted instigating now that he knew the truth about the man and his life – that he held a deep hatred for any fascist ideology. It was easy enough to discern his heritage and where he was born, from his accent and facial features. It was not much information, but for a clever enough person even such scraps were enough to piece together an identity.

And Spy, as Misha had seen proven again and again, was an extremely clever man. If there was something he wanted to know then he would find a way to know it. And if he were to look into Misha's past, were to start digging into places he had no business doing so...

Misha brought his cup to his lips and sipped carefully. The tea had cooled to comfortable temperatures, but the delicate act was enough to keep his blood pressure in the lower levels. He had to concentrate on holding the cup gently between his fingers, lest he accidentally shatter it in his hand.

When he lowered his drink, just visible over the rim of his cup, a pair of grey eyes were watching him from across the room.

Misha choked on his drink.

This time, Spy didn't vanish when he looked away. Misha wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and blinked rapidly at the apparition across from him, part of him hoping it was truly just a trick of the light. But his eyes were not deceiving him.

There the man sat in one of threadbare armchairs, a teacup and saucer balanced on his thin knee. Watching Misha.

This was not a mistake or coincidence. This was not the random happenstance of two people looking across a room, unrelated, their eyes meeting by accident. Spy's gaze was already there and already fixed on Misha's face, just as it had been the day before in the brief moment he'd been seen.

Misha didn't look away this time. He didn't blink or try to clear his eyes, because now he knew for certain that he was not and had not been imagining things. There was Spy. His posture casual, his expression unreadable. Sitting, staring, silent. Not a hint of motivation for his behavior.

The Frenchman's face did not change at all as Misha stared back at him with his mouth hanging half agape, caught in this unexpected situation. He lifted his own cup – likely coffee, rather than tea – to his thin lips and sipped delicately, the simple act exhibiting more grace and finesse than Misha had ever been capable of in his entire life. Even from the distance, Misha could see the length of the man's dark eyelashes as he blinked over his drink. He closed his eyes for only a moment, and when he opened them again they found Misha's immediately.

They stared at each other for only a moment.

It was Spy who looked away this time, down into his cup. Whatever he found there seemed to leave him wanting, because the next moment he was unwinding his long legs and getting to his feet. When he was only a few steps from the kitchen door he glanced back, just for a second. And then he was gone.

Misha's face felt hot. His chest, too.

He couldn't explain exactly why. Something about that look and the gleam in Spy's eye was as familiar as it was confounding. It stirred something in him that he had given up on long ago.

Curiosity.

It wasn't much to go on. The look could mean a million other little things, all of them more logical than whatever it was he thought he might have seen. But even the idea of it was enough to get Misha wondering.

He watched the kitchen door, waiting for Spy to reemerge, to ambush him with eyes across the room for once. But Spy did not come through the doorway, not after five minutes and not after fifteen. Or, more likely, he _had_ come through the door, but neither Misha nor anyone else had seen him through his mysterious cloaking device. Hmph. So he was playing games, then.

Misha had always been good at games. He had to be, acting as half a parent to his younger sisters and living through years of total isolation in the wilderness. The mind withered with nothing to occupy it. The world had made his family strong, and he took it upon himself to make sure the girls grew up clever and quick as well. He had learned his fair share of cleverness, too.

If Spy wanted to sneak and be seen only when he chose to, then Misha could accept those terms. He could play along, if the two of them were even playing at all.

Misha would wait. He would not doing anything stupid, he would not try to awkwardly word any of the many questions he had and embarrass himself more than necessary. He would simply wait, and see if his hunch was correct.

He did have to wait for very long.

He got his answers a day and night later, in the late hours of the evening.

Sasha was a magnificent weapon. A one of a kind gun that Misha had crafted with his own two hands, all the way from the roughly sketched schematics to the finished product that now sat on the table before him. To think, it all started with the simple desire for a gun that was large enough to fit in his hands.

As with any machine, Sasha required maintenance. Her components required cleaning and oiling to prevent untimely jams or malfunctions, and any damaged parts needed fixing or replacing before they led to mishaps on the field or ended up causing permanent harm to the weapon. Once a week, Misha set aside an entire night to devote his full attention to Sasha and her needs. He secluded himself in the large utility closet that he had converted into his workshop, tools and supplies neatly arranged around himself, and began the careful task of disassembling his most prized possession and putting her back together again in better shape than before.

He was halfway through this task when the door opened behind him.

Misha did not hear it. There wasn't any creaking of hinges to alert him to intruders or ominous gust of air to chill his spine. It was the reflection of light on the doorknob, bouncing off of Sasha's freshly oiled barrel that caught his eye and gave his visitor away. Misha knew who it was before he even started turning around.

“Spy,” he rumbled, locking eyes with the man frozen in the doorway. “Is polite to knock first.”

Already the tables had been turned. Spy had clearly expected to catch him off guard, possibly to stand and silently for as long as he could get away with it or until he decided to reveal himself. That Misha had caught him so soon appeared to have thrown his plans askew. He composed his face quickly, but not before Misha saw the wideness of his eyes.

“Apologies,” the Frenchman said. He hesitated before pushing the door open any wider, stepping fully into the room and closing it behind him. A gloved hand remained on the handle. “I did not wish to startle you.”

“Am not easy to startle,” Misha told him. He turned back to his work, and turned his back on Spy. An unwise move, as all his training and combat experience told him, but he did not want to show weakness to this man, this shadow that had been watching and following him for days and days. Misha was not afraid of him. He wanted him to know that. And he wanted to adhere to the rules that had been established for their little game now. If Spy wanted to be seen, he would have to be plain about it.

Spy was still behind him for a few moments. Misha couldn't even hear him breathing, though he knew he was still there. The faint scent of spiced tobacco had begun to drift through the room, undercutting the heavy smell of oil and gunpowder that clung to everything Misha owned. He resented the new smell. It felt more like an invasion than the man's presence itself.

Even now he could feel those eyes on him again. Crawling on the nape of his thick neck, itching over the back of his skull. Every second of silence that ticked past made him more and more uncertain about what was going on here. Could he have misread the man's masked face so badly that he missed an obvious threat? His intentions were never clear to begin with, but Misha was beginning to realize just how muddy they were to begin with.

“You watch me.”

Misha's sentence was simple, and not a question. He hadn't meant to say anything at all, not until Spy had said something first, but the nerves got the better of him. He had established control of the situation at the start. He was uncertain if he wanted to relinquish it now.

“I do,” Spy answered. He sounded farther away than Misha had thought he was.

“Why do you do this?”

“Because I enjoy looking at you.”

Misha fumbled the tool in his hand. It clattered noisily onto the workbench in front of him, knocking into several nuts and bolts and sending them spinning. The quiet sound of metal against wood was the only noise in the little room for as long as it went on, and when it died down the silence rushed in to fill the gaps.

Misha had not expected an answer. Not of any kind at all, much less an honest one. And it _was_ honest, he could hear it in the Frenchman's voice when he spoke, but still he did not believe it.

He must be misunderstanding. Something must have been lost in translation, nevermind that he understood English far better than he could read or speak it. Spy's accent was not as thick as some of the others mocked him for. Misha had heard him quite plainly, he knew, and yet...

Misha set his hands flat on the table in front of him, to keep them from disturbing anything else. Behind him, he heard Spy suck in a quiet breath.

“Explain.”

Spy laughed suddenly, a breathy, bubbly, nervous sound that only served to disarm Misha further. He turned in his seat to look at the man behind him and noticed for the first time that he had not moved an inch from his place by the door. His hand remained on the handle, though his posture was casual. Perhaps it was the bright lighting, but Misha thought he looked paler than usual.

“What is there to explain?” Spy finally said, so casually that it had to have been forced. “You are a handsome man. It is difficult _not_ to look at you, when there is so very much of you to look at after all. I believe there is an American phrase about elephants in rooms, _non?”_

Spy laughed again, without a reason to. Heavy blinked at him several times. He had been called handsome, and then insulted in the next breath. This was very much in Spy's nature, to give what Medic had once referred to as 'back-handed compliments,' but Misha felt only more confused than before.

“You like to look because I am big?”

Spy's chuckling cut off abruptly. There was something wild in his eyes now, something that Misha had never seen in his face before. He didn't know what it was. And before he could work to identify it further, it was gone, smoothed away in a blink under years of careful training and practice to change one's expression at will. Watching Spy compose himself was always disconcerting, but even more so in that moment. His behavior was erratic. Misha was still waiting for a proper explanation.

Spy cleared his throat.

“That is one reason. One way of putting it, yes. It is difficult to ignore a man who is the size of three other men combined, don't you think? I can hardly be blamed for looking as I do. At the strength of your arms. At the size of your hands.”

Misha's gaze dropped to the backs of his palms, still spread out on the table in front of him. To him, there was nothing special about them. They were large, he couldn't deny this, but also hairy and callused and scarred, with thick fingers and bits of dirt and metal shavings underneath his short nails. They were simply his hands. But to Spy, who's eyes had followed Misha's own to the appendages on the table, they clearly meant something else.

Misha could see it now. The true look in the masked man's eyes, the wonder of the children who stared on the street and the desire that stared back at him from the other side of a shadowy bar.

Spy _wanted_ him.

A million little pieces fell into place in Misha's head, put together from over a year of acquaintanceship and company. Spy may have only recently begun to stare at him so openly, but all the little quirks of the man's behavior Misha had disregarded as oddities or rudeness now seemed to obviously to be _interest._

A year and a half. How many signals had Misha missed or misinterpreted in that time? How many, if any, tactics had Spy employed to get his attention before outright staring at him, and finally cornering him alone in a small room to speak openly? That was what Misha wanted, for once in his life that someone might approach him with _words_ and an intent rather than vague glances or gestures. He'd wanted that, yet now he was the one at a loss for words. Finally someone, another man, and Spy of all people, had verbally expressed their attraction to him.

What now?

Misha got slowly to his feet. Spy's eyes widened as they followed him up, up, his slim body shrinking ever so slightly away as Misha rose higher and higher above him until he towered over the smaller man. The breadth of his chest and shoulders, the sheer of _bulk_ of him was more apparent in the cramped little room. Beneath the material of his strange mask, the apple of Spy's throat bobbed noticeably.

_He fears me,_ Misha realized with a jolt.

All he had done was stand up. He did not threaten, he did not accuse or imply violence. He had done absolutely nothing except rise from his chair, and straighten his shoulders. And yet Spy's form was tensed to flee or fight at a moment's notice for no reason at all. Seconds ago he had openly admired Misha's form, expressed attraction to it. And now he shrank away, as though only then realizing the possible threat Misha could pose.

Was _this_ why none had approached him before? All those men who had looked but never spoken to him, let alone offered opportunity to touch, had they been afraid of him? Too afraid to approach or buy him a drink, let alone try and proposition him. Misha felt like kicking himself. Big, cowardly Misha, wasting time and opportunities out of fear and confusion. Those men had seen him and wanted – _expected –_ him to be strong and commanding of their attention. How many had been disappointed by his hesitation?

He stood very still, digesting this new realization. Spy was staring uncertainly up at him, a head shorter and still looking so defensive. So small.

Misha swallowed hard.

“Why now?” he asked, “Why tell this now? What do you want?”

Spy regarded him from his position by the door, clearly running a threat assessment in the back of his mind. Misha stayed where he was and kept his hands by his sides, trying to appear as calm and nonthreatening as he possibly could while his head was in danger of scraping the ceiling. Finally, the masked man seemed to relax.

“I did not know if you could be trusted,” Spy told him. “Or if your inclinations would match my own. I had a hunch, and my hunches are generally correct, however I have often found it... safer, to err on the side of caution.”

So that confirmed it. The fear. But Misha understood the uncertainty behind it, the desire to protect one's self and reputation. It was what had held him back all his life as well. He could not be angry at Spy for being a braver man than himself, in the end.

“How did you know?” Misha asked. _What gave me away,_ was what he truly wanted to know. Spy's lips curled slightly into a knowing smirk.

“I didn't. That it why I was watching you. And as for what I want-”

He hesitated. The certainty in his expression faded back to caution. Wariness, but again Misha could see the heat returning to his eyes. Spy lowered his chin, looking up at Misha through those thick, dark eyelashes that had so transfixed him in the days before.

“I want everything you are willing to give me.”

Misha was not a man who blushed easily. He rarely had occasion to, and due to his experiences in life, the least of which had to do with growing up in a series of small homes with three young sisters and his mother, there was very little left in the world that he believed could shock or fluster him.

But he was blushing now. He could feel how hot his face was and knew that his cheeks would be a bright, rosy pink, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to cover it now. Spy was smiling at him again, and not unkindly. Hopefully, even. Misha quickly looked down at the floor.

He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what exactly Spy wanted, or how to give it to him. And he didn't know how to tell him that.

He stared mutely at the ground, frowning and mulling over his thoughts to try and form them into comprehensible words. He clenched and unclenched his hands at his sides as he had always done when thinking seriously about difficult things, ever since he was a little boy. The rhythm and sensation helped him to focus. It helped to ground him. It had also gotten him in trouble in school and with the adults, for appearing too 'aggressive' when he was anything but. Just another quirk of his behavior that was so often misinterpreted and so often made him appear to be a man that he was nothing like at all. Now, unfortunately, it was no different.

Misha heard a click and looked up, blinking at the empty space in front of the closed door. He was alone.

Spy was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also made [a bit of a note](http://genuineanger.tumblr.com/post/139270374640/) on my tumblr


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longest chapter yet! yay!

Misha did not sleep.

He disassembled Sasha twice, and then again, scrubbing away every fleck of grime and rust he could find on her in an effort to occupy his mind and hands. To distract him from the terrible, gnawing itch that told him he had gone and ruined everything.

Spy had fled before Misha could even come up with answer, much less tell him his decision. Whether he had become frightened by Misha's silence and posture or become too embarrassed by his own confessions, or simply vanished to prolong this little game he had started, Misha didn't know. But he intended to find out.

Misha's curiosity was getting in the way of his natural inclination to caution and defensive action. He was less afraid of Spy revealing his secret and more worried than Spy was never going to speak of this to him again. That would be the worst thing, to be so close to understanding these feelings and then to lose it all over a misunderstanding.

The whole night had been spent thinking and planning and deciding what he wanted to do. And he had come to the conclusion that what he wanted was _Spy._

It was not as if Misha had never noticed him before. The masked man managed to be attractive even with half of his face obscured, and much of that had to do with the way he carried himself. A quiet, subtle grace that hid the viciousness that Misha knew him to be capable of, in conversation and in battle. He was a conundrum. A puzzle that seemed to reveal more and more fractured pieces just when it seemed it was finally close to being solved.

Misha liked the man. He liked what little he had been allowed to see of him beneath the carefully constructed display he put on. It didn't take much considering to decide that he would like to see more.

He would go. He would go to Spy, tonight, and then they would see where things went from there. It was decided. He was not going to throw away this opportunity to satisfy his curiosity and the desires he had denied himself all his life.

Misha decided this as he sat down at the table for breakfast, intent on making it through the day with that decision intact.

And then he saw Medic, and his resolve crumbled.

The doctor was yawning, covering his mouth with the back of his hand as he filed into the mess hall. It was obvious that he had not slept either, but still he presented himself as clean shaven and freshly dressed, greying hair styled in the perfect, pristine manner that Misha had always been fascinated by. And even with the dark, sunken circles beneath them, his eyes still brightened when they caught sight of Misha at the table.

It was as if a hole had opened in Misha's gut when Medic drew up a chair beside him, giving a friendly nudge with his elbow and chiding him over the amount of sausage on his plate. Misha watched, dismayed, as the doctor speared one with a fork and stole it for himself. His pain had nothing to do with losing the sausage and everything to do with the man beside him, oblivious to Misha's turmoil and chatting happily about the scientific progress he had made in the night.

Misha felt suddenly ill.

Months and months he had spent in Medic's company, befriending him, fighting beside him, getting to know and appreciate him. Falling in love with him. And now he was thinking of throwing that all away, and for what? Because Spy liked his hands?

Guilt ate at him even as he picked at his food in misery. He barely heard what Medic was saying, so absorbed was he in his grief, and that only made him feel even guiltier. Misha knew he didn't have any good reason to be feeling this way. He had sworn no oaths to Medic or professed any of his feelings, he didn't even know if the doctor felt anything for him beyond the bonds of their friendship. But still, it felt like a betrayal. Misha felt unfaithful, and the feeling gnawed at him all morning, all through the routine of suiting up for battle and hauling the now-immaculate Sasha with him into the ready room. Even the warmth of the Medigun, which usually made him feel so comforted and safe, did little to ease his mind.

He could not abandon his feelings for the Medic so easily. He couldn't discard the affection that had blossomed within him. Before anything could happen with another, Misha needed to know if there was anything there, if there ever _could_ be something more between them.

When the starting gate raised and his teammates began to rush forward, Misha made his move.

“Doktor,” he said suddenly, blocking the startled man with a broad hand across his chest. Medic looked at him with raised, expectant eyebrows. Misha swallowed hard. “We go together, _da?”_

Medic smiled at him. Encouraging, had it not been his battle grin.

“Of course, _mein Fruend._ Let us not keep the enemy waiting.”

To be called 'friend' by this man had once made Misha's heart swell with joy. Now, it was like a dagger in his chest. He lost his nerve, and let his hand fall away before he could think too much about the solid warmth of the doctor's breast beneath his palm.

“Yes, Doktor,” he rumbled, finding Sasha's trigger beneath his finger. He turned his attention to the open gate and the bloody battle already raging outside and pushed all thoughts of heartbreak from his mind.

The rest of the day passed by in a dull blur.

Misha did not see Spy at all during the round. He caught glimpses or saw shadows out of the corner of his eye, but he never directly laid eyes on the man. Perhaps that was for the best.

He didn't see the man when they celebrated their victory or when everyone was stripping down and cleaning up after the day's battle. Misha didn't see a hint of a mask at dinner, though by then he was making an actual point of looking. Spy's absence was not commented on. His role in the success of the match was not discussed. Nobody but Misha even seemed to notice the chair that sat conspicuously empty, or the bare plate that rested in front of it.

It did not sit well with him, that Spy should be off somewhere alone while the rest of them chattered and enjoyed each other's company. He worried for the man.

As the plates were cleared away and his teammates began to drift from the room, Misha reconsidered his earlier plan of seeking Spy out and trying to explain things to him. It was an idea that made his stomach twist into knots of anxiety, but he didn't know what else he could do to resolve things between them now. It didn't sit well with him to leave things open as they were. He never even had to chance to give a proper answer.

Misha wrestled with himself for the rest of the evening, trying to make up his mind. He tried to read, and then he tried to write, and then he changed into his pajamas in the hopes that a fresh set of clothes might also give him a fresh perspective. They did not. They didn't even make him sleepy, which was another hope, that he could make himself too tired to worry and then all of this would melt away into yesterday's problems.

Unfortunately it seemed as though it was not going to be that simple.

Misha tossed and turn after he switched his lights off. The worry ate at him. The feeling of closing a door, throwing a way a chance that he may never get again in his life was almost too frightening to endure alone in the dark.

He was being foolish. He was more bull-headed than he was a fool, and his own stubbornness was not going to let him sleep until he did something about this problem. It was of his own making, and so it was up to him to fix it.

At a quarter past midnight, Misha swung his legs back over the edge of the little bed and found his slippers on the floor. He stood up, double checked that all of his clothes were on right-side-out, and then set off on the task of tracking down a Spy on his home turf.

Nobody knew exactly where Spy slept at night, but everyone was in agreement that he was not doing it in his designated quarters. He wasn't the only one who eschewed the cramped little dormitories for somewhere more private and personalized. Medic had his bedroom off of the infirmary, and the Engineer had a cot partitioned off out in his workshop. The Sniper never went anywhere without his camper van, and the fact that he slept in it whenever possible was no secret to anyone.

Spy, on the other hand, was a mystery.

The so called 'smoking room' he had claimed for himself was the only place Misha could even think to start looking. And if he wasn't there...

It was late, later than he had planned to do this when he still had the bravery of a man who'd gone too long without sleep. Even if he found Spy, he was likely to find him in a bad mood at having been woken up by a giant stumbling over his words like a child. Maybe, if Misha was very lucky, he would take a wrong turn and get lost in the base, and then he could congratulate himself for making an effort while actually doing nothing at all.

But Misha did not get lost. His feet carried him right to his destination, shuffling softly down he familiar hallways of the old base until he came to a heavy wooden door, decorated with a simple bronze plaque that contained a fancy script. Misha could not read it, but Medic had once hesitantly told him that it translated to 'go away right now.'

Misha stared at the dark wood in front of him and practiced taking deep, calming breaths. When he was ready – as ready as he would ever be – he raised his fist and softly knocked.

For the longest time there was only silence. Misha listened intently, stopping just short of pressing his ear to the door in case he missed a quiet call, but there was nothing. Just the sound of his own hammering heartbeat as he stood all alone in a dark hallway. His head fell forward and his hand dropped back to his side.

It was a foolish plan anyway.

Misha had taken a step back and was starting to turn around when the door clicked open.

“Oh,” Spy said, speaking to the middle of Misha's chest where any normal-sized person's face would be. He looked up at Misha's actual face and blinked. “I thought you had gone.”

“Was going to,” Misha said, trying not to look as hurt as he felt. “Will go, if you want. Came to talk.”

Spy's expression was tired but still wary. The room behind him was dark, but there was a flickering light coming from somewhere off to the side, perhaps a candle. Misha couldn't tell if Spy was still in his suit or not.

A tense moment dragged on between them. Misha was certain that his fidgeting and stern expression was what had frightened Spy away the night before, so he made a conscious effort to not do anything but stand there in the dark, staring plaintively at the smaller man behind the door. Spy's expression was unreadable. Finally, he gave Misha a quick once over and sighed.

“Come in, quickly,” Spy said, throwing the door open wide. “You are letting in the cold.”

Misha had to duck his head under he door frame. He didn't know what 'cold' Spy was talking about, but he couldn't deny that the inside of the room was far warmer than the hallway, likely due to the crackling fireplace he had mistaken for a candle.

He had never been in Spy's smoking room before, but he now understood why the place had earned its name. It reeked of tobacco smoke. He counted three ashtrays at a glance, one of which had a lit cigarette sitting in it. Behind him, he heard Spy striking up another one.

Now that they were in the light, Misha felt far less foolish for having come here in his sleeping clothes.

Spy was dressed in some kind of robe, with a silken sash tied around his middle to hold it shut. He was barefoot, but also looked to have pants on beneath the robe. Perhaps this was his bedroom after all, though Misha could see no sign of an actual bed. Interesting.

“What do you want?” Spy asked around a mouthful of smoke, snapping Misha's attention back to him. He didn't sound angry or defensive, only tired. Misha resisted the urge to shuffle his feet like a bashful schoolboy.

Now came the part that he'd been dreading. The talking. The trying to put his jumbled thoughts and emotions into words without sounding like an idiotic brute. It would be easier if Spy spoke Russian, or if Misha spoke French, but the language barrier was always something he would have to overcome in this country. English would have to do.

“Was going to ask the same thing,” Misha ventured nervously, trying to work a small smile onto his face. “We did not finish talking last night. Came here to finish conversation.”

Spy's expressed changed, though if asked Misha couldn't explain exactly how. Spy looked at him, one arm crossed defensively over his chest while the other brought his cigarette back to his lips. He smoked before he answered.

“I wasn't aware you had anything else to say on the subject.”

 _I left because I thought you were going to make me leave,_ was the message Misha received from his tone and body language. Spy had come to him in a place of risk and vulnerability, and now the tables had been turned on them. It was Misha who was feeling vulnerable now.

“Was going to say yes,” Misha rumbled, looking to the floor again to try and cover the absurd flush rising to his cheeks. “To- to what you say you want, only there is, eh... problem. Is what I came here to tell you.”

Misha risked a glance up at Spy's expression. He saw the surprise on the man's features, and the raised eyebrow, but couldn't read much further than that. Spy's cigarette was burning down to an ashen cylinder between his fingers, but that didn't seem to concern him in the slightest.

“Would you like to sit down?” was what he finally said, and sounded a little hoarse while saying it. Misha nodded gratefully, and following him to the loveseat.

Misha felt absurdly large as he sat on the little piece of furniture and heard it groan and creak beneath his weight. Spy settled at the far end of the seat, which really wasn't very far at all. The points of their knees bumped against one another. Misha felt like he was inside of a dollhouse meant for much smaller toys than himself.

“I apologize for my sudden departure,” Spy said as he lounged back against the cushions. He turned and reached back to stub out his cigarette into one of the strategically placed ashtrays that Misha hadn't seen before. The front of his robe shifted as he did so, revealing a half inch strip of bare skin beneath the fabric. Misha averted his eyes immediately when Spy turned to face him again. “I'm afraid I misread the circumstances, _non?_ Perhaps if I had stayed we could have had this conversation then, rather than saving it for the middle of the night.”

“ _Извините,”_ Misha said automatically, once again self conscious about the hour. But Spy only laughed, a soft sound, and reached forward to rest the tips his fingers on Misha's knee. Misha noticed, for the very first time, that the man was without his gloves.

“No apology necessary, _mon ami,_ I meant only that there are... other things we could be doing now, instead of simply talking.”

The rapid changes in Spy's tone and demeanor were not making things any easier for Misha. He digested what was meant by the deliberately emphasized 'other things' and what those things might be, then shook his head slightly. Those sorts of things were exactly what he was concerned about. He wouldn't want to put himself in a situation where Spy would have any great expectations on his ability only to disappoint him. But how was he supposed to let the man know that without being laughed at?

“Have never been with a man before,” Misha blurted, and immediately wanted to smash his head into the nearest wall. Surprise registered on Spy's face. Misha sucked in a breath and kept going before he could stop himself. “Have wanted to. Always have looked at men at felt, eh, attracted to, wanted to have more than is friendship with them, but there was never opportunity. Where I lived, it is not safe to feel this way. When I leave, I never know how to- to find or to talk about this, was always afraid to be wrong. Now I am old man who knows nothing but still want- want to-”

Misha's words failed him. He looked helplessly to Spy, hoping that the man understood and would not mock him. Would he still want Misha now? If he wanted a big man, a strong man to take charge and be sure of himself in the bedroom then he was sure to be disappointed.

But he did not look it. Spy did not laugh in his face either, which was encouraging. It was only a small bit of hope, but Misha was willing to take whatever he could get.

“Have you never been with anyone?” the Frenchman asked, his head tilted slightly. Misha shook his head.

“With women. Have been with many women. Was good, but never what I wanted.”

Spy laughed at that, but it was not a happy sound. His fingers were still on Misha's knee.

“You are not as unpracticed as you seem to think, Heavy. To be with one is not so different as being with another, depending on one's partner I suppose. Is that what all of this is about?”

Misha nodded meekly. He let out a deep breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding and felt his shoulders relax. He'd been so afraid. Making himself so vulnerable in the face of a man who made a profession out of exploiting vulnerabilities was a daunting prospect, but he would have preferred to have this conversation a thousand times than go the rest of his life fearing he'd missed an opportunity.

 _Do you still want me?_ Misha wanted to ask, if only to hear the words of reassurance from the other man. But his voice did not seem to want to cooperate with him anymore. He looked down at Spy's hand where it rested on his leg, and very hesitantly moved to cover it with his own.

Spy sucked in a small gasp as Misha's massive hand very easily encompassed his completely. Thick fingers brushed delicately over the back of his wrist. Spy's skin was soft under Misha's callused touch, his hands spared the grueling nature of their work by the leather gloves he'd worn every day that Misha had known him. Without them, it felt as though Misha had caught him in a state of undress.

His eyes flicked back to the thin strip of flesh exposed at the collar of Spy's robe, and then immediately up to Spy's face. Misha had never been this close to another man, not in this way. Nothing ever this _intimate,_ and all they were doing was touching each other's hands.

Misha wanted to touch more than that. He wanted Spy to touch him, too.

Even with that want, he still stiffened slightly when Spy moved toward him, shifting suddenly from his relaxed seat so that he was half kneeling on the sofa in front of Misha, snaking strong arms around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

Spy tasted like an ashtray but at that moment Misha would have forgiven just about anything. He had never been kissed like this before. Or perhaps he had, but the feeling of it had never felt this _right_ before.

Misha felt the slick texture of Spy's tongue slipping between his teeth at the same moment that he felt the rough, wiry scratch of Spy's day old stubble on his chin and cheek and upper lip, scraping against his own. It was electric. It was uncomfortable and foreign and the most _correct_ thing Misha could ever remember feeling in his life. This was what it was meant to feel like when he kissed somebody. This what he needed, and what he'd been missing.

One of Misha's hands moved to occupy almost the entire expanse of Spy's back and he felt the man shiver against him and press closer. Spy shifted again, and suddenly he was in Misha's lap, straddling one of his thighs and clutching at the material of his t shirt as though it were a lifeline. There was something desperate and overwhelming about the way Spy was kissing him now. His lips had moved to Misha's broad chin and jaw, hot as a brand against his skin. His other hand had moved to Misha's arm, grabbing and squeezing his thick bicep, short, sharp nails digging into his skin and giving him goosebumps.

Everything was hot. Misha felt flushed and overheated, and Spy's body against his was warm through the layers of both their clothing. He had no idea what to do with his hands other than to hold the smaller man against him and to try and prevent him from falling back or onto the floor, not that he seemed in danger of doing so with how tightly he was holding on. Misha moaned at the sensation of teeth scraping his jaw and the sound rumbled through both of their bodies.

“I can teach you,” Spy hissed in his ear, pressing his palm to the solid, padded muscles of Misha's chest as he repositioned himself in his lap. “I can show you everything you have ever wanted to do, and have done to you. I can show you-”

He was cut off by Misha grabbing him and pulling him back into a proper kiss. Spy moaned loudly into his mouth and shocked Misha by grinding his hips down onto him. The beginnings of a bulge he felt there, the flatness of Spy's chest against his own, the scent and taste of him, it was all so much to process and compare to all his past experiences. His heart was racing, and the heat beginning to build low in his stomach was hotter and more intense than he had ever experienced it. It was all too much to take it at once, even more so considering he had only come here to talk. He hadn't mentally prepared himself for anything like this at all.

He wasn't ready.

Misha broke away with a gasp and grunt, lifting a shaking hand to put space between himself and Spy. Spy sat back at once, lips bruised and eyes wide.

“Stop?” he asked, sounding exactly as breathless and frantic as Misha was feeling. Misha nodded.

“ _Da.”_

Spy managed to remain graceful even as he flopped backward and scooted to his original place on the loveseat, making a show of straightening his robe and mask and avoiding Misha's searching gaze.

Misha hoped he hadn't offended the man. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy or wanted to end things before they had even gotten started. But right then, and right there... Whatever Spy was leading up to with that movement of his hips, Misha was going to need more time and warning before it went any further.

“It is late, _non?”_ Spy commented in a voice that was was slightly strained. “Perhaps we should both return to our own beds, before the hour gets any later."

Misha nodded again and swallowed.

“Yes. For tonight, yes.”

That got Spy to look at him. The suggestion of later, another night, one of them _not_ returning to their own bed... Misha was pleased the limitations of his speech had not disguised his meaning. The Spy's gaze was heated as his lips curled at the corners, a wicked promise of things to come half hidden behind the fabric of his mask. He stood, and extended his hand in courtesy. Misha took it and stood as well, and was suddenly reminded of the great difference in height between them. Spy looked up at him, even as he bowed slightly and lifted Misha's hand in both of his own. He pressed his lips to the rough, hairy backs of Misha's knuckles and lingered, for only a moment.

“For tonight, _mon ami.”_


	4. Four

Misha slept like a rock.

The previous night's lack of sleep combined with his complete emotional exhaustion made for a potent sleep aid, as he found out the second his head hit the pillow. One minute he was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to get the taste of Spy – tar and brandy, but mostly tar – out of his mouth, and the next thing he knew there was a pair of fists pounding on his door and trumpet blaring in the hallway. Soldier's wake-up call. Reserved exclusively for those who had missed the first call of the morning.

Misha pulled the pillow over his face and briefly considered trying to smother himself. Then, at least, he would wake up in Respawn fully dressed and not have to look at Spy at all along the way.

Thinking of Spy made Misha's stomach do a funny little flop.

It had happened. It had all really happened. The talking, the kissing, the slim body pressed against his own. That was not a dream or a desperate fantasy, all of it was _real,_ and better than he ever could have imagined.

“ _RISE AND SHINE, COMRADE!”_

“Am awake!” Misha roared in the direction of the door, in response to Soldier's call and the relentless, rhythmless pounding. When the banging did not stop, and proved forceful enough to rattle the door on its hinges, Misha flung the pillow from his face and stood up so fast it made him dizzy. He wrenched open the door with a mighty swing, fully prepared to shout down the man that he expected to be shouting back at him.

Instead, it was Medic who stood there in front of his door, gloved fist raised and poised to knock, eyes widening in the face of Misha's enraged expression. Misha closed his mouth with a sharp snap.

“Doktor,” he said dumbly, face reddening. “Where is Soldier?”

A groan from his right answered that question. Soldier was slumped on the floor, cradling his right arm to his chest. The first two fingers on his hand were bent at an odd, unnatural angle.

Misha looked at Medic, who looked right back at him.

“I suspected he might be disturbing you,” Medic said drily.

Misha blinked for a moment, but could not stop the grin from spreading across his face.

“ _Spasibo,_ Doktor.”

“It was my pleasure,” the Medic said with a grin of his own, and Misha didn't doubt it for a moment.

Medic waited outside while Misha hastily dressed into his uniform and pulled on his boots, and the pair of them strolled into the mess hall together to find it mostly empty. There was plenty of food left on the table, however, which was surprising given the ravenous appetites of some of their teammates. Perhaps Scout had missed the first wake up call as well.

Misha settled himself at the table, and was pleased when Medic took the seat right by his side. He began to second guess his pleasure, however, when the questions started.

“Are you feeling aright, _mein Freund?”_ Medic asked, looking at him sidelong over the thin rims of his glasses. His elbow nudged gently into the meat of Misha's arm. “It is unlike you sleep so late into the morning. What time did you go to bed?”

“Around one o'clock,” Misha told him.

“Oh? What were you doing up so late?”

Misha hastily stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth, chewing slowly to stall for time as he thought up an answer. Medic was not typically the sort of man to pry into other's affairs, but if he suspected one of his patients was keeping something from him regarding their health then there was nothing anyone could do to keep it from him. Misha shrugged in what he hoped was a casual way.

“Was working on something.”

Medic's right eyebrow arched skyward. Misha had not been casual enough. His ears began to redden under the scrutiny of those pale eyes, and no amount of chewing or stalling would save him now.

“ _Pardon.”_

The interruption came in the form of a long, pinstriped arm passing between them. Misha sucked in a breath as Spy leaned into his field of view, his chest momentarily blocking Medic from sight as the Frenchman reached for the jar of raspberry jam. Their eyes met for only a moment, but it was long enough to make Misha's cheeks flush even further.

When Spy pulled away, leaving the faint whiff of ash and smoke and toothpaste in his wake as he went on his way, Medic was glaring at the back of his head.

“You could have gone around,” he snapped at the Spy's retreating form. Spy only waved the stolen jar in response. He sat at the far end of the table, on the opposite side of them, and proceeded to ignore both Misha and the doctor. His knife scraping loudly over his slightly burned toast was the only real reminder that he was even there.

Medic's mood seemed to sour after that.

Misha's guts were in knots as he consumed his breakfast, shooting furtive glances between the man beside him and the man across the room. Spy was eating slowly, picking at what little was on his plate and acting as though he were very much alone in the room. The doctor beside him was fairly stabbing at his own food, sawing into it was with edge of his fork and chewing so loudly that Misha could hear his teeth grinding together. He had retreated into one of his moods, and retreated from Misha himself. The friendly press of his elbow had drawn away from Misha's arm, tucked tightly to his own side instead, eyes glued to the plate in front of him. Misha got the sense that the man was suddenly keeping a distance between them.

The guilt returned in a full force wave. Misha pushed it back as hard as he could.

He had spent enough of his life feeling guilty. For what he wanted, for who he was, for the things that he dreamed about in the darkest hours of the night. No more. Now that he had finally had a taste of his own wants and found that the fabric of society did not in fact come crashing down around his ears, Misha was not going to waste one more second on guilt and shame. He had felt _good._ He wasn't going to allow himself to taint that feeling with unnecessary negativity.

Boldly, Misha looked up and stared at Spy.

He watched the Frenchman delicately spoon a mouthful of oatmeal into his mouth, as delicately as one could do such a thing. And he caught the moment that Spy glanced down the table in his direction and did a double take. Their eyes met across the room, as they had been doing so often these past days, and Misha allowed himself a small smile.

Yes, this could be very good.

 

* * *

 

He did not have to wait after knocking this time. The door was opened almost immediately, before he could even lower his hand. And there stood Spy.

“Took you long enough,” the masked man smirked, standing aside for Misha to step through the doorway. “I was beginning to wonder if you would come at all.”

Misha ducked his head apologetically. It was past eleven, and it had taken all of his willpower to wait as long as he did before leaving the confines of his room. It had been a long day of quick glances and awkward attempts to bump into each other in the halls and on the battlefield. Butterflies fluttered in Misha's rounded stomach all through dinner as he debated with himself how soon he should try and return to Spy's quarters. Would he impose, or seem too eager? Was there some unknown etiquette dictating how long he should wait?

But he had remembered the frantic, insistent way Spy had kissed and pressed against him. The resulting heat that flushed through him just thinking about it had helped him to make up his mind.

“Am here now,” he said with a shrug, as the door was silently closed and locked behind him. Spy leaned back against the wood, regarding him.

“So you are.”

A moment passed where they simply stood there looking at one another. Misha had removed his flak jacket and bandolier and boots, but he still wore the rest of his uniform. Spy's eyes roved his broad chest openly. He felt almost naked under the intensity of such a look.

Spy _looked_ nearly naked without his suit jacket and tie. His collar was open by a few buttons, revealing that his mask extended quite a ways father down his neck than Misha expected. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows to show the toned, surprisingly hairless lengths of his forearms.

Misha was reminded of the way Medic would wear his dress shirts the same way, stripping off his heavy coat and pulling up his sleeves when he planned to get up close and personal with somebody else's insides. He went without his gloves then as well, preferring to work with his bare hands. Spy's gloves remained on tonight.

Misha shook all thoughts of the doctor from his mind. That was not why he had come here. The man in front of him, watching him again, was.

Spy tilted his head and pushed himself upright away from the door.

“Shall we begin?”

Misha stood frozen for a moment as Spy walked across the room, and then his legs spurred into action. He followed Spy slowly, unsure where he was actually being led. The loveseat on which they'd had their previous encounter was on the other side of the room, and there did not appear to be any other furniture capable of holding the two of them. Unless Spy meant to climb directly into his lap again?

The confusion deepened when Spy stopped in front of a small end table with a flowerpot on it.

The masked man met his uncertain expression with a smug one of his own. Misha watched as he reached down, pulled open the very small drawer in the front of the table, and reached inside. There was a soft click. And then, suddenly, the wall was moving.

Misha watched with wide eyes an an entire panel sunk backward by an inch with a hiss of pressurized air being released. The wall, framed painting and all, rolled soundlessly to the side and vanished into the section beside it and revealed the spacious, luxurious bedroom hidden behind it. Misha's jaw dropped.

The bed was the biggest that he had ever seen in his life. Wide enough that it took up most of the large room with a dark wooden frame, dressed in pressed white sheets and a deep green duvet. Wherever he expected Spy to be sleeping, this was not it at all. There was a tall wardrobe against one wall and a worn, battered steamer trunk pushed against the footboard at the end of the bed. Twin lamps sat on twin beside tables – along with a pair of ashtrays, and a half empty bottle of whiskey.

Misha felt fingers brush against his arm and looked down in time for Spy to surge upward onto his tiptoes. He kissed Misha fiercely, fists balling around the material of his t-shirt as he tried to pull him down.

At once, Misha was electrified. His hands went to Spy's shoulders, his arms, his waist, his own clumsy mouth trying to keep up with what it was supposed to be doing. He could taste mint on Spy's breath and appreciated the courtesy, if that was what it was. He wondered suddenly what the rest of the man tasted like.

Spy broke away suddenly.

“Move,” he ordered, pushing ineffectively at Misha's chest. Misha complied, walking backward and allowing himself to be steered around to the side. The backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed and he sat down hard. The mattress dipped significantly under his weight, but the frame of the massive bed did not so much as creak beneath him.

“Impressive,” Misha said. Spy grinned down at him.

“Aren't I?”

Misha pulled him with a gentle tug that sent Spy staggering forward to stand between his legs. He wrapped an arm around the smaller man's waist, the span of his hand taking up the entirety of Spy's back as this time he was the one to be pulled down into a kiss.

“Was talking about the bed,” Misha murmured. _“_ _Ты великолепен._ _”_

Spy's breath hitched in his throat at the low rumble of that deep voice against him, and then he melted into Misha's arms.

It felt almost _too_ natural, to be this way with him. Only days before they were exchanging furtive, misunderstood glances from the shadows as nothing more than colleagues. Now, with his tongue teasing at Spy's lower lip and Spy's gloved hands cupping the sides of his face, Misha felt as though there were no more “right” a place for him to be in the entire world. It was like some sort of wonderful dream that he could lose himself in, if only he had the time.

“Tell me what you want,” Spy said, breathless between kisses. His hands moved from Misha's face to his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles he found there. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

“Touch you,” Misha gasped. His eyelids fluttered open as he looked up at Spy, thunderstruck by the expression of _need_ on his thin face. They had hardly done anything yet, nothing more than kissing and pressing against one another, yet this was the contact Misha had been starving for all his life. Perhaps Spy was starving, too. Misha swallowed hard. “Want to touch you.”

“Oh, thank _god.”_

All at once Spy's hands left him. He fumbled with the buttons of his shirt for a moment before giving up and trying to strip his gloves from his hands. Misha moved while he was distracted.

He settled his large hands on Spy's hips, over his shirt, and began to tug the fabric out of his waistband. He could feel sharp hipbones beneath his thumbs as he began to push the shirt up, marveling at the rapidly appearing strip of flat, toned stomach. Misha allowed himself a chuckle at the unexpected sight of the man's protruding belly button, mixed with a noise of appreciation for the thin, dark line of hair that trailed beneath his belt line. Spy helpfully raised his arms as Misha pushed his shirt up over his head. The undershirt he wore beneath caught on his chin and Misha was treated to the show of Spy's muscles shifting and flexing as he peeled the offended garment off of himself and tossed it carelessly to the floor.

And then, without any warning or prompting for what he was about to do, Spy slipped his fingers under the neck of his mask and pulled it off.

Misha's first instinct was to shut his eyes. He made a noise of shock and slammed his lids closed before he could see anything more than an impression of high cheekbones and dark hair. It was Spy's soft laugh, and the press of softer lips on his forehead that prompted him to look again.

“You may open your eyes, _mon ami,”_ the unmasked man said, tilting Misha's face up with a finger beneath his chin. “It is only a face.”

Misha opened his eyes slowly. It felt like a trick or a trap, or a test at worst. He didn't want to betray the trust he had only just earned. But his curiosity got the better of him.

Spy was handsome, but Misha had already known that. Even without the mask to cover them, it was still the same sharp chin and hooked nose, the same grey eyes, the same hollow cheeks. The mask had left noticeable tan lines on his face, but he was not as pale as could be expected. His hair was silky and black and greying heavily at his temples and widow's peak. It was also longer than Misha would have thought, given how tightly the mask seemed to cling to the man's skull. Oddly flattened and uncombed after being trapped beneath the mask all day, it fell about Spy's forehead and ears in a disheveled, roguish pout.

When Misha failed to speak after several minutes of staring, Spy leaned down and broke the silence with a kiss and a soft hum.

“I could put it back on, if you're prefer,” he teased, with a hint of genuine uncertainty in his voice. “Though it does become quite uncomfortable when one works up a sweat.”

“Want you to be comfortable,” Misha said immediately, blinking to try and break his own fascinated stare at the face of the man standing in front of him. Spy smiled at him, a fond expression that made Misha flush more than the removal of any clothing had.

“As do I you.”

Spy's fingernails scraped through the bristly, thinning stubble at the back of Misha's head as he leaned in for another slow kiss. Misha's own hands returned to Spy's hips and settled low on his waist. He _was_ comfortable, despite his own fears and expectations. He was familiar with this part, the undressing and exploring one another with roaming hands and eyes and mouths. Misha had taken many lovers before, all of them women, and he was relieved to find that the process thus far had been much the same. Instead of a dress, he had pulled a collared work shirt off of his partner. Instead of a brassier for his thick fingers to fumble with, it was a fine leather belt and a pair of suit trousers. Even that was not so far out of his element.

It was what was beneath the trousers that made his hands tremble and anxious little butterflies begin to flutter around in his stomach.

Tentatively, Misha moved his hands back to settle high on Spy's waist, at the division of belted pants and smooth, bare skin. He felt as way as saw the muscles in Spy's stomach contract, shifting and tightening so close under the skin. Sharp hipbones were under his thumbs again. Looking at the size of his hands compared to the size of Spy, Misha wondered if he could circle his fingers around the other man's middle and have them touch. He shuddered at the sudden thrill that ran through him at the thought.

Misha's callused palms slid up Spy's sides. He could feel the taut, toned muscles of his abdomen and chest, but he could also clearly feel the definition of the Frenchman's ribcage. The way it expanded as he breathed, visibly trying to contain himself. Spy's eyes were closed and his mouth with slightly agape. His arms were held out awkwardly away from himself to accommodate Misha's wandering hands. He was clearly restraining himself from something, more than he had been capable of the night before. Misha appreciated it. But he was also feeling much braver than he had when they'd first started.

“You are warm,” Misha rumbled and felt the way Spy's entire body trembled.

“So are you,” he breathed. “Just your hands... _ahh!”_

Misha made his boldest move of the night and rubbed the rough pad of his thumb over the peak of Spy's nipple. It was an odd motion so do without the soft, fatty tissue of a breast to grasp, but Spy gasped and jolted all the same. His hips bucked forward, drawing Misha's attention to the outward tent of the fabric. The truly forbidden fruit of another man's most sensitive parts, so close now in front of him.

He didn't know what came over him. What burst of bravery or disregard for his own fears or hesitations. Curiosity won again as Misha leaned forward purposefully and pressed his mouth over the solid bulge beneath the fabric.

Spy shouted hoarsely.

“Sorry!” Misha said, immediately letting go of Spy entirely, almost falling backward in his haste to back off. “Am sorry, did not-”

Spy grabbed the collar of his t-shirt and yanked so hard he heard stitches pop. Misha's mouth was open and trying to continue his apology when Spy kissed him so hard their teeth banged together.

“ _Merde,”_ Spy spat, pulling away sharply. _“_ _Vous n'avez pas à vous excuser-_ you did nothing wrong, I was surprised, apoligies, I did not mean- you didn't have to stop.”

Misha blinked through the rapid fire mix of languages hurled toward him, trying to put the words together in his own fit of worry and confusion. Things were cleared up when he realized Spy was struggling to remove his own belt. It clicked that the noise had been made not because he'd done something wrong, but because he had done something very _right._

“Is good?” Misha asked, wide eyed and cautious, hating how limited and brutish his English sounded. Spy let out a soft chuckle.

“I've found there are very few times when a hot mouth on one's cock is _not_ good.” He paused in his frantic movements, pants open and pushed down low on his lips. “Is this what you want? To suck me?”

Misha's blush was so intense that he was sure if it was any colder in the room, his head would have been steaming.

This was not exactly what he had set out for in coming here tonight. Taking off each other's clothes, exploring bodies, getting a feel for this new world of possibilities in front of him was all he'd had in mind. There was no real plan or boundary in mind. It was an act more of impulsive curiosity than well thought-out desire.

But staring up at Spy's flushed face, so filled with hesitant anticipation and need, Misha was filled with the strangest feeling of determination. He pondered for a moment longer, then made up his mind. He set his expression and nodded.

“ _Da._ Want to try this.”

For a moment, he thought that Spy was going to fall over. He wobbled slightly, and then all the breath went out of him and he was moving again, resuming the struggle of pushing his tight trousers down his bony hips. Misha raised an eyebrow at the sight of his non-regulation black underwear, made of some sort of thin, stretchy material that offered a very clear outline of exactly what it was they were meant to be covering. He bit his lip in nervous anticipation as Spy stepped out of his pants entirely, and gracelessly attempted to kick them out of the way. He was very nearly naked, while Misha realized suddenly that he was still fully clothed. He would have to do something about that, later.

Spy stepped closer to him once more, resting one hand on Misha's shoulder and the other on his cheek. Misha's hands returned to their now-comfortable position at Spy's waist, thumbing over the thin band of elastic. The warmth of the man was as comforting as it was terrifying. Misha's nerve faltered.

“Have never done this,” he said sheepishly, suddenly embarrassed by his own inexperience, even knowing that was why he had come here in the first place. To learn. To find out what he'd been missing.

Spy's mouth curved into a gentle smirk.

“Would you like me to tell you to do? What I like, and how to do it?”

The blush returned to Misha's cheeks full force as he nodded. Spy's smirk curled into something altogether more wicked, though there remained a softness in his eyes. His hand on Misha's face shifted slightly, brushing his thumb over Misha's lips. He parted them without thinking, and did not resist when the digit was pressed into his mouth. Experimentally, he pushed his tongue forward to meet the thumb, and knew he had made the correct move when Spy gave a low hum of approval. He pushed his hips forward.

“Put your mouth on me again, through the fabric.”

Misha's saliva cooled quickly on his face as Spy drew his thumb back across his cheek, guiding Misha toward him. His touch was light enough for Misha to stop himself or pull away, and slow enough that he could change his mind and speak up about it. He did none of that.

Misha hesitated, for only a moment, to watch Spy shiver at the feel of hot breath on his cock. Then, he pressed his lips to the hard shaft beneath the thin cloth. Spy's breath hitched above him. Misha remained still, exactly as he was, waiting for further instruction.

“Use your lips,” Spy finally said, when he realized. “And your tongue. I can only get these panties so wet on my own.”

Now it was Misha's turn to moan, at such a provocative statement. He opened his mouth fully and pressed the whole of his thick tongue to the outline of Spy's covered cock. He sucked experimentally and was rewarded with another hum and the feel of Spy's fingers curling at the back of his jaw.

“ _Bien._ Do that until I tell you to stop.”

Misha had never taken orders well. A certain distrust and dislike of authority was something both of his parents had instilled deep within him, and for very good reasons, or so it turned out. He was his own worst enemy in the gulag, the labour camp that he and his remaining family were sent to. Even with the barrel of a rifle pressed to the back of his head, Misha had remained proud and stubborn. His own man, to the very last. It was when he Mama and little sisters were threatened, however, that all of his strength and defiance went out of him. But even then he did not acknowledge the authority of the men in uniform standing over him.

Which was why he was so surprised with himself now, at his own immediate eagerness to follow the firm instructions of a man who was not wearing any clothing at all.

Perhaps it was the lack of danger behind Spy's commands. There was no threat of pain or suffering in what he wanted, no fear that Misha or his loved ones would be harmed if he did not comply. The only thing promised, to both of them, was pleasure. That was the sort of order would gladly consent to following.

He did as he was told, with his lips and his tongue. Getting a feel for the work, as it were. He sucked and licked and familiarized his mouth with the feel and taste of another man. The heady musk of him. The clean, slightly bitter taste of the stretchy fabric. The heat of Spy's cock, and the way it would sometimes pulse or twitch against Misha's tongue.

He continued in this way until the front of Spy's underwear was completely damp with saliva and precum, a large wet stain that further darkened the already black fabric. Strange that he had still never technically touched another man's cock, and yet he had fully mapped the covered member with his tongue and lips.

“Stop,” Spy finally said, again in that hoarse, ragged voice. Misha sat up and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at Spy expectantly. He was pleased with the pretty pink blush that stained the man's sharp cheekbones. Evidence of his attempted handiwork.

Misha was far calmer than he expected to be by this point. And hard. Completely, achingly hard, and very grateful for the extra room in the baggy front of his sweat pants. He kept his hands very carefully on his own knees, resisting the desire to rub or readjust himself as he waited for his next instructions. This was for Spy, now. He had started this, and he was going to finish it.

“Take them off,” Spy ordered, swallowing visibly. “With your hands.”

Truthfully, Misha wasn't sure what else he could have used to remove a pair of underwear, but now was not the time to question such things.

He started with his hands on Spy's thighs, sliding his palms up the almost disconcertingly hard muscles he found there until his fingertips brushed the elastic of the leg holes. Spy swayed slightly where he stood and gripped Misha's shoulder for balance as Misha hooked his fingers beneath the elastic and pulled.

Spy let out a sharp little gasp as his cock was exposed to the air, bobbing forward almost comically toward Misha's face. He was of average size, and circumcised, Misha noted with interest. Though it was the thick, unruly bush of dark, wiry hair nestled between his thighs that truly impressive. All the hair that Misha had expected to find on his arms and upper body seemed to have gathered on his lower half instead.

Misha leaned forward, unbidden, and pressed his lips to the trail of hairy skin just below Spy's little bump of a navel. He caressed Spy's thighs and calves as he pulled the damp underwear all the way down to his ankles.

“You smell good,” Misha murmured against Spy's skin, when the man stood bare before him. Spy laughed suddenly.

“That is not something I am accustomed to hearing, as you might imagine.” His fingernails scraped feather-light over the back of Misha's scalp. “But I am glad you think so. I wonder if you will enjoy the taste of me as well.”

Misha's cock twitched in anticipation. He drew his mouth away from Spy's hip and looked up, waiting for new instructions on what use it should be put to. Spy stared back at him, flushed yet impassive. He nodded ever so slightly. That was all the encouragement Misha needed.

His eyes crossed slightly as he leaned forward, trying to look at the cock slowly nearing his face, not sure what exactly he was afraid would happen if he looked away. Almost delicately, Misha stuck out his tongue and flicked it against the head. When Spy gasped and clutched his shoulder more tightly, Misha grew braver.

He began slowly at first, as he had done through the fabric of the underwear. Pressing his lips to the underside and mouthing his way along the shaft, getting used to the taste and feel of the smooth, hot skin.

“Use your tongue,” Spy instructed, after some minutes of this treatment. Misha immediately complied, pressing the firm, broad flat of his tongue to the base of Spy's cock and dragging it slowly up to the tip. A high, delicious cry rose in the other man's throat as he did so, ending in a shockingly deep moan as Misha closed his lips into a loose seal around the swollen head.

“Mind your teeth, _mon ami,”_ the Frenchman said, when Misha pulled back. “Cover them with your lips, like so?”

Misha looked up and watched Spy's demonstration, then mimicked the action for himself. He licked his lips to make them slick, and then went back to his work with a new-found self assurance.

Whatever he was doing, Spy seemed to be enjoying it. Misha tried to recall every technique that he could remember ever being used on him when he was on the receiving end of a warm mouth, rather than supplying it, though admittedly his mind had been elsewhere during those times. He was still very sloppy and unpracticed, though Spy seemed to be enjoying whatever it was he was doing. Misha, being as large a man as he was, was also in possession of a very large mouth. He found that he could quite comfortably take the whole of Spy's cock into his mouth, allowing him to nose into that dark bush of hair as he worked up a halting, uneven rhythm.

Spy was not quiet in his pleasure. He moaned and sighed loudly, his voice only soft when gasping advice and encouragements such as “faster” and “suck harder” and garbled, whispered French that Misha couldn't even begin to process.

He ran his hands up and down the shaking muscles of Spy's thighs as he sucked, eventually growing bold enough to reach up and squeeze at the man's ass. Spy responded very well to that, to Misha's delight. By the time he felt that he was finally getting the hang of the whole process – he had figured out the motion of keeping his lips slightly loose while pressing down, and then sucking hard as he pulled back – the man was a panting, shaking wreck.

Spy was barely upright anymore. The bulk of his weight was supported by his arms on Misha's shoulders and the knee that had been hiked onto Misha's thigh. Only the toes of his left foot remained on the floor as he panted and whined above him, huffing encouragements down Misha's back as Misha did his best to support him and pleasure him at the same time. His earlier self-consciousness about his ability had been erased, replaced with a swelling pride that _he_ was responsible for Spy's current state. _He,_ big, fat, clumsy Misha was undoing this man with his mouth alone. There was something incredibly satisfying about that knowledge, that sensation of power that shot straight to his own throbbing and so-far untouched cock.

Misha made a noise of surprise when Spy suddenly tried to push him back.

“Heavy, I- I have to-”

“Want to taste you,” Misha rasped earnestly, looking up at him. For a moment, he thought Spy was going to faint.

Whatever the Frenchman hissed was not in English, but it didn't sound like French either. Misha had little time to think it over before he found Spy sliding off of him and pushing a thumb back into his mouth, effectively holding his teeth apart.

“Open,” Spy ordered, taking himself in his own shaking hand and beginning to stroke quickly. “ _Ouvrez la bouche.”_

Misha complied, opening his mouth as wide as he could and sticking his tongue out past his lower lip. Spy cursed again, and then Misha felt a spurt of hot, viscous fluid spatter his cheek. The next spurt hit his chin, and then his tongue, and a final, weak burst painted his upper lip. Spy swayed dangerously, and it was Misha's strong hands that stopped him from toppling over. He was well and thoroughly spent.

Misha took the moment of silence and heavy breathing to explore the new taste in his mouth. It was not as thick as he'd expected it to be, but it was oddly bitter. Like the taste of an uncoated aspirin, without the chalky texture. Misha closed his mouth and licked his lips, rolling the sticky flavour around his mouth before swallowing.

Spy, who had shakily lowered himself to the edge of the bed and since collapsed backward onto it, made a funny sort of gurgle beside him.

“You did not have to do that,” he said weakly, as Misha turned to face him. His face was a fading, blotchy pink, and the sweaty dishevelment of his hair and limp limbs was incredibly endearing to Misha. He gave a little one-shouldered shrug as he shifted, laying slowly by Spy's side on the mattress.

“Wanted to taste,” he repeated simply. Spy's long eyelashes fluttered for a moment, and then he smiled. He reached out with a wobbly hand and used his thumb to wipe a glob of his own come from Misha's chin. To Misha's mild indignation, he then wiped it on his t-shirt.

“I suppose you'll have to take it off now,” Spy said innocently. That wicked, wicked smirk had returned to his face however, with his hand pressed to Misha's chest, grazing over his peaked nipple beneath the fabric. He sighed, and looked away.

“You- you did very well, Heavy. And if will give me a moment to recover myself...”

Misha jolted slightly as something brushed the hard outline of his own straining cock in his sweatpants. Spy turned slightly, slotting his thigh skillfully between Misha's own, providing a subtle pressure that was almost torturous. Misha moaned when the hand on his chest began to trail downward as well.

“...perhaps I can return the favour.”


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well it's been about two months since i've managed to write anything at all. i won't go into too much detail here, but there's been a lot of family stuff popping up lately and some health concerns, and this week i finally got my very first prescription for antidepressants. so things are better now than they have been in a while, and hopefully they will continue to get better from here
> 
> but i decided to celebrate by getting something done, and putting something out there for all the people that have stuck around and waited patiently for me to get my shit together and get back on track haha
> 
> ANYWAY. picking up right where i left off, i believe somebody had their dick out right?

It was a peculiar thing, that Misha should still find himself so bashful after everything he had already done that night.

It would not be correct to say that he was self conscious about his body, but it wouldn't be far from the truth, either. Misha was not ashamed of his size or his weight, or the thick, soft hair that covered his chest and stomach. In fact it was these features he was most grateful for, having spent much of his life in the frozen and unforgiving wastes of Siberia. His hair and fat was what had kept him alive and warm, and the additional padding had helped him survive accidents and injuries that would have killed men who were more “fit” than himself. His core was solid muscle, but it was the layer of soft fat – which had only grown softer and thicker, thanks to his cushy life as a well-paid mercenary – that caused his belly to hang over his belt as it did. Misha had come to terms with this, and knew that a few weeks of proper hard work at home would trim him down in no time.

But he was not _at_ home. He was sitting awkwardly in the edge of a bed that did not belong to him, with his shirt in his hands, and a naked man laying beside him.

Misha was comfortable enough with his body. But he was not sure whether or not Spy would be.

The Frenchman was staring at him, but Misha couldn't bring himself to look back. He looked instead at his own hands and the soiled shirt he was carefully folding between them. He could see his own pudgy stomach, and the faded, shimmering scars that striped his skin. There were other scars, of course, but those were battle scars, earned fighting for survival rather than fighting with the waistband of his pants and the holes in his belt.

Misha froze when he felt fingertips brushing his back, just to the left of his shoulder blade, passing over the knotted scar he knew would be found there.

“Gunshot?” Spy asked, though Misha could tell by his tone he knew all too well what it was. He nodded anyways.

“ _Da.”_ He reached up to rub a hand over his left shoulder, a reflexive movement. “Bullet is still inside.”

“Does it pain you?”

“Only when it is cold.”

Spy snorted.

“I will make an effort to keep a fire going whenever you are here with me, then.”

Misha felt the rustle of skin against fabric, and felt the mattress shift behind him. A hand was pressed to the small of his back – another gnarled scar, another reminder of all that he had overcome in his life – and joined its mate as they slid around his body. Spy's bare chest pressed close against Misha's bare back. Warm lips and a stubbled chin trailed along his shoulder to the back of his neck. Spy's breath was hot against his throat.

“You have been so good to me tonight,” the Frenchman murmured, continuing to kiss him. “I am confident enough to believe that I can be very, very good for you as well, _mon ami.”_

Misha allowed his shirt to be pulled from his hands and discarded, leaving only his hands in his lap to try and cover the sizable tent in his trousers. His ardour had faded slightly in the face of his own anxieties, but it would take more than that to quell his lust completely.

“Would like that,” he rumbled, and turned his head in time to capture Spy's lips with his own.

Misha rolled onto the bed properly and immediately found himself on his back, Spy's slim form on top of him as the smaller man straddled his thigh, just as he had done on the sofa the night before. His hands were deceptively strong as the pushed against Misha's broad chest, fingers carding through the thick hair they found there. Spy's lips were constantly in motion across Misha's skin. On his own lips one moment, then his chin and his collarbone, on the hollow of his throat, the center of his chest. Misha let out a surprised little moan as those lips closed over one of his nipples and sucked hard.

No one had ever done that to him before. He had done it to the soft, round breasts of his previous partners and delighted in the way they keened at the action, but truthfully he had paid little attention to the features on his own body. Now, with Spy's tongue teasing it into a hard, tight little nub, Misha was deeply regretting not exploring his anatomy more thoroughly.

Misha had only just begun to relax again when Spy's fingers drifted down to the waist of his sweat pants. The Frenchman exclaimed suddenly, a shrill noise of surprise, and Misha jolted upright.

“ _Что?_ What is wrong?”

Spy scrambled off of him, staring down at Misha with the oddest expression on his bare face. Misha, thoroughly confused, followed the man's eyeline to his lap, and the large bulge of his cock through the cloth. He shifted self consciously and looked back up, even more confused than he had been before.

“Off.” Spy whispered in a small, strangled voice. “Take your pants off. _Tout de suis.”_

When Misha didn't move fast enough, still in shock as he was, Spy took matters into his own hands. His grabbed hold of the waist of Misha's pants and yanked hard enough to pop stitches.

With some effort, Misha's cock sprung free of the elastic waistband and hung meatily across his thigh. Spy sucked in a short, sharp breath.

He looked _hungry..._ and slightly pale. And suddenly Misha understood.

He was a big man, and he knew this. Everything about him was bigger than most people, from the size of his hands to the breadth of his shoulders, right down to the thick, achingly hard member between his legs. To him, there was nothing remarkable about the size of his cock. It was a part of him, and it fit him just as proportionally as everything else. But now with Spy's wide eyes fixed him it was easy to remember that compared to others, he was very remarkable indeed.

Again, Misha felt a wave of self consciousness. Would this be a problem? For as many women as had been delighted at the sight of him, there were just as many that had been frightened or angered, worried that he would harm them, either intentionally or otherwise.

Those doubts vanished when Spy's hand curled around the thickest part of his shaft, and squeezed lightly until his fingertips just met.

“ _Mon Dieu...”_

Spy's hands were far smaller and thinner than his own, but Misha still had to bit back a groan at the sheer difference in size between them.

“Lay back,” Spy instructed, still gripping him in one delicate hand. Misha didn't have to be told twice. He collapsed heavily back against the headboard, watching the Frenchman shift to settle eagerly between his spread thighs and wasted no time at all in sealing his mouth around the fat head of Misha's cock.

Misha jolted at the sudden, white-hot contact on his feverish skin. He'd been so hard for so long without any stimulation, to the point that any sensation was almost painfully intense. But Spy was not hurting him. Killing him, most definitely, but in the best way possible.

He stared over the swell of his belly at the sight of Spy's lips stretched wide around his thick swollen cock, struggling to take any more of it deeper into his mouth. It was the short hair that threw Misha off the most, along with the shadow of a beard on Spy's hollowed cheeks. It was shocking and wonderful and better than anything he could have ever imagined even in his most vivid of fantasies. Spy sucked hard at his head, and pulled off with a sharp, wet pop.

“Ah, _merde,”_ he panted, raising up to settle at a different angle. Before Misha could even say anything his mouth was back at it. He lathed his tongue along Misha's length, moaning obscenely as he licked from root to tip, and then did it again, and again. Misha had to reach up and grab hold of the headboard to tether himself and retain some kind of composure. He could do nothing else but sit there and watch and feel, and what a _feeling_ it was.

Both of Spy's hands were stroking him, wrapped tight around his cock, palms slicked with saliva and precum. Despite the Frenchman's valiant efforts, he couldn't fit more than a few thick, throbbing inches of cock into his mouth. Oh, but he clearly wanted to. Misha wanted to tell him that it was alright, that this was good, more than good it was fantastic, he didn't need to hurt himself trying to do more. But also, Misha desperately wanted him to keep trying. To murmur low encouragements to him, as Spy had done for him. To tell him to suck harder. Tell him to, impossibly, swallow it down, and let Misha's cock slide back into the tight softness of his throat.

But Misha said nothing. He couldn't speak no matter how badly he might want to, not while under this onslaught of pleasure and sensation. He'd neglected his own need for much of the night, opting instead to explore Spy and his slim body. Now that he was the center of attention, Misha was overwhelmed.

Finally, grudgingly conceding defeat, Spy's mouth pulled off of Misha's purpled head and made for more manageable, lower-hanging fruit. When he sucked Misha's balls into his mouth, moaning so loudly that the vibrations ran through him, it all proved too much.

Misha bellowed as he came without warning. His legs lifted clear off the mattress and his vision whited out as sparks fired behind his eyes as his release ripped through him.

When he regained awareness of his surroundings, Misha slowly lifted at him and looked at the man still hunched between his thighs. Spy was still mouthing gently at his softening cock, looking up at him through those dark lashes with such unguarded fondness that Misha couldn't help but gasp out loud.

Still trembling slightly, he reached out with a large hand and brushed his fingers against the high edge of Spy's cheekbone. He couldn't help the low moan that built in his throat when the other man turned to nuzzle into his palm, the shocking contrast between the size of Misha's hands compared to every part of him becoming all the more apparent. It was something that had embarrassed Misha in his previous relationships, even as much as it thrilled him. To be so large, and so strong...

There was a dark little acknowledgment in the back of his mind, one that he had spent many an hour trying to quiet, that reminded him just how _big_ and _strong_ he really was. He could tower over his lovers. Hold them, pin them, make them powerless beneath them if he wanted to. The problem was that rarely ever wanted to do any of that.

Nobody had ever ordered him the way Spy had. Nobody without a gun in their hands, at least. Whether it was a lack of bravery or simply because his partner thought he would prefer to play at being in charge in the bedroom, he had never really questioned it before. Never had a reason to.

But there was a reason right in front of him, lounging between his spread thighs, looking so handsome in the lamplight with the thin sheen on sweat on his skin. Misha had seen many beautiful men in his life, but never once had he been in a position to tell of them what he thought. He wanted to tell Spy. He wanted to acknowledge that this was something special, something incredible and delightful.

But Spy was moving before he could even begin to the form such thoughts into actual words. Misha lay back against the downy pillows as Spy crawled up his body, using Misha's stomach and shoulders as hand-holds as he pulled himself up to flop onto the mattress beside him. Spy heaved a great sigh and looked over at Misha.

“Well?”

Misha blinked at him.

“Eh, thank you?” he said, unsure what exactly Spy was waiting for him to say. Judging by the man's snort of laughter, that was not it.

“You're welcome,” Spy answered sardonically. “Though I suppose I should have asked more clearly, how this evening been for you? Have I met your expectations?”

“Had no expectations for this,” Misha said, frowning slightly. “Was very good, _da,_ wanted this. But I did not expecting anything from you.”

Spy's expression changed. Misha couldn't tell if it became softer or more guarded, such was the nature of Spy's face, but it changed nonetheless. The Frenchman was silent for a moment.

“I wanted this, too,” he said, finally. Quietly. His hand came up to rest on the thick bulk of Misha's forearm. “I am very glad you came here tonight, _mon ami._ I was worried I may have frightened you away.”

“You do not frighten me.”

For days, Misha would wonder if that had been the wrong thing to say. Spy's face changed again, this expression more inscrutable than the last. But it was colder than before. Or so Misha thought. It could have been his imagination, his own fears projecting onto his perceptions, because in the next moment Spy was pushing himself up and pulling Misha's face toward his own. The kiss was soft and warm, and ended with a sigh. Spy flopped back on the mattress, but remained clinging loosely to Misha's arm.

“I'd like you to stay, if you have a mind to.”

“To sleep?”

“Yes, just to sleep. It's been too long since I've woken up with another person in my bed. I will not begrudge your leaving, if you prefer the comfort of your own bed. But the invitation stands, for tonight.”

Misha though of the small, lumpy cot that had served faithfully as his only bed for the six months they had been stationed at this base, and the ray of damnable sunlight. It was not a difficult decision to make.

“I will stay, if you want?”

Spy smiled softly at him, and curled closer around his arm.

“I do want.”

 

* * *

 

Misha was woken by an alarm.

Not a base-wide alert, not the Administrator's screeching or Soldier's appalling trumpeting, but it was an alarm nonetheless. Beeping nearby, softly but incessantly. He opened his eyes to near darkness and had to work for a moment to orient himself and remember exactly where he was, and what he was doing. The bed as far bigger and softer than he was used to, and the room itself was not lit with the single, piercing shaft of light that he'd grown so grudgingly accustomed to, blinding him each and every morning as he woke. This was not his bed, and he was not in his bedroom.

Misha groped carefully over the other side of the massive mattress, searching for the body he expected to find there. But instead of a slim, warm figure curled beneath the blankets, he felt only empty sheets. Not yet cold, but empty nonetheless.

He sat up, and turned on the light.

Spy was not in the room, but he couldn't have gone far. Now that he was more awake Misha could hear the muffled sound of running water, though he had no idea where it could be coming from.

He felt awkward, to be left unsupervised in this place. Spy was a man who did not so much 'value' his privacy as he did viciously enforce it. While he may have felt comfortable enough to leave Misha alone while sleeping, he might not feel the same to find him awake.

But, as rude as it was, Misha couldn't shake the thought of this being something of an opportunity.

He reckoned that he had now knew more about Spy than anyone else on the RED Team. He had seen his face, after all, and the rest of him as well. He knew the colour of Spy's hair and feel of his bare hands. He knew how the man tasted.

So when he spotted that the wardrobe had been left slightly ajar, it was a simple, casual little motion to swing the door open wider.

A collecting of suits hung before him. Almost all of them red, with two on each each end that were very conspicuously not _;_ one suit was black, a tuxedo wrapped in thin plastic, and the other suit, though similarly pinstriped, was _blue._

Misha was a much smarter man than most would believe, but even he had no idea what such a thing could mean.

While pondering, his eyes were drawn to another colour that did not match its fellows. A silk tie, hanging neatly from a rack affixed to the inside of the wardrobe door. Every single tie was an identical shade of red, save for one. It could have been a trick of the light, or the angle it was hanging at, but something familiar nagged at the back of Misha's mind.

He might have even had time to recall it, had the water not shut off and startled him into a panic.

He didn't want to look like he'd been snooping. He considered trying to feign sleep but no, Spy would see right through that, surely. Misha started to stand up, and then remembered abruptly that he was naked.

The blankets were clutched tightly to his lap as he sat on the edge of the bed, one foot on the floor and the other tucked up beneath him, cringing as his bare back pressed against the cool wood of the headboard. And that was how Spy found him, when an unremarkable panel of wall slid open slid open to reveal him, and also the full sized, steam-filled bathroom he had just stepped out of. He was maskless still. A white towel was wrapped very low about his hips. Misha stared.

“Good morning,” Spy said, slicking his damp hair back off of his forehead. It was even darker when wet, and the grey stood out like gleaming strands of silver. His skin was flushed pink by the steam and hot water, and even with the towel to cover him he looked more naked than Misha had ever hoped to see him. He continued to stare, mouth slightly agape, until Spy began to laugh at him. Not unkindly, more of an amused chuckle. But it was enough to bring Misha to his senses.

“ _доброе утро,”_ he said, in Russian, before realizing his mistake. Spy simply smiled, and let the towel fall.

“I saved you some hot water,” he said, walking around to the wardrobe that Misha had just been prying in, “if you would like to wash up here, rather than in the general facilities.”

The 'general facilities' meant the communal showers of the locker room, on the other side of the base. Any other time, Misha was not shy about bathing with or in front of his teammates. But now, with the heat rising in his face and in other parts of his anatomy, he didn't trust his mind not to wander... nor his body not to betray his thoughts.

“You are done?” he asked, then averted his eyes sharply when Spy stooped to pull up a pair of black briefs, identical to the ones Misha had peeled off of him the night before. The Frenchman nodded over his shoulder.

“ _Oui._ But please do not use too much of the shampoo, I can't get any more of it for another month.”

Misha couldn't tell if he was being serious or not. He scratched pointedly at the skin of his shaved head, and watched Spy start to search through his collection of identical shirts. Then he stood up.

“Will shower,” he said awkwardly, keenly aware of his nakedness and the weight of his interested member hanging heavily between his thighs. Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, Spy did not turn around to look at him then either. If he had, it was likely neither of them would have made it to breakfast on time.

Misha stepped into the small bathroom and carefully closed the door behind him.

The room was not nearly as nice as the bedroom it led off of. The walls and floor were simple white tile, with a porcelain sink and toilet and a simple standing shower, which was little more than an inclined floor with a drain in it and a clear plastic curtain to close it off. But even still, it was far more privacy than Misha was used to. Living in a large fortress with eight teammates was nothing compared to living in a small cabin with three younger sisters and his mother. The door even had a lock on it.

Spy had indeed left him a fair amount of hot water, not that it was ever really a worry. Misha was a quick bather, and not one to concern himself with the temperature of the water. He did not use any of the shampoo. He hoped he didn't. There were a lot of bottles of pretty smelling liquid clustered in a rack hanging from the shower head, and Misha was careful to grab the one that looked like it was the most full. It made him smell like some type of plant, but at least he – hopefully – no longer smelled like Spy.

When he turned the water off and pulled the curtain aside, a set of fluffy wait towels were waiting for him on the lid of the toilet. He hadn't even heard the door open.

When he stepped back out into the bedroom, Misha discovered that this time he was truly alone. The wall to the smoking room stood open, and a fresh pair of his own clothes, taken from the trunk in his own bedroom, were sitting folded on the freshly-made bed. Misha wasn't sure he liked the idea of Spy being able to get into his room and into his things to easily, and yet... it was a touching gesture. And one he appreciate, even though it encroached on his boundaries.

But perhaps it was fair play, after all. Misha looked over at the wardrobe, now closed and noticeably latched shut. Boundaries, it seemed, was something they both had ideas about out. Misha would remember that. And, when next they had time, it may even be prudent that they discuss such things.


End file.
